Inevitable that as he ages and reflects, he’ll dream of returning to the Ponderosa pines and blue skies of his eastern Washington puphood. And once he’s there, it’s likely he’ll take a good sniff around. Ah, the 1970s. Ah, feathered hair. Ah, wall-to-wall carpeting.

Ah, creative license.

Hank’s been digging through his life’s sedimentary geology—dusty layers of Dynamitemagazines, grainy photos of grubby kids, and prized gems like The Sunshine Family and Dorothy Hamill dolls* interspersed with many, many mysterious craft items fashioned of bark, macaroni noodles, and orange acrylic yarn possibly intended to accompany such treasures into the afterlife.

And memories!

So many memories. Did you know that one summer Hank met Evel Knievel, saw Jimmy Carter on a raft, and then spied some UFOs? Yeah, man. That kind of stuff happened all the time back then.

But that’s the funny thing about memory.

It’s true that Hank once saw Evel’s mom eating breakfast at a Butte diner. He even waited by the banks of the Salmon River for the infamous Mr. Carter (this was Idaho, after all) to float by, but it turns out he missed the President by a week. Or something. Hank & Co. did spock all sorts of UFOs one summer and kept the Air Force UFO hotline close by the phone but strangely, In Search Of… never called.

Kids will note “the” phone. Scarcity was a thing in the 70s. As was this. This was a thing. A couple of things, actually. And that orange yarn.

And this. This was a thing. It’s any number of things, really, though it appears to be only one conjoined thing.

The point is, memories get jumbled together over time and come back sort of weird on retrospect. Like the be-collared vision above from 1979—a full two years post-ex-Elvis—memory plays tricks on us, just as fashion fooled country kids back in the day. Still, what sounds better than some homegrown tunes when you’re revisiting The Land of Was with Hank?

Nothin’ that’s what.

If you’ve not yet heard the rock n’ roll awesomeness of Donnie & Joe Emerson well, that’s cool, man. This is the time and Baby, this Bud’s for you:

Hank may never have met Evel Knievel, splashed Jimmy Carter, or got to hang with the Emersons, but he can still dream wild.

He hopes you will, too.

Keep your eyes open for UFOs.

Note* These items probably belonged to Hank’s Very Favorite Person. Now that he thinks about it.

Oh, Hank! What treasures you must have in your loft! 🙂 It’s true that we look at the past through a blurry, rosy lens. This is the best way to view any photos taken in the 1970s or 80s! And look at your blissful face in that last photo! Don’t stop dreaming! 🙂

Oh, dear. Anywhere from three to eight solid minutes of eight-bar melody and guitar repetition, a three- to six-note vocal range, car-radio clarity of diction with reined-in backup chorus so as not to overpower it, occasional space-age synthesizer riffs, and they still couldn’t find an agent? Poor kids. No doubt a frightened Peter Frampton spearheaded that cover-up conspiracy.

Hank, now, clearly has more interest in composing than in performing. I take it he specialized in the transition period between eleventh- and twelfth- century neumes? And his calligraphy in writing the word Et is exquisite. Keep your camera ready to record the rest of this masterpiece!

Ha! We suppose you’d have to have lived in eastern WA back in the day to appreciate the weird time warp tractor beam operating there, responsible for any number of terrible, terrible fashion fugues and other rifts in the space-time continuum. Or whatever. But we’ll totally take your Peter Frampton theory.

Hank had to Google “eleventh- and twelfth- century neumes”. How clever of you to guess that he loves chants! He especially likes to join in, thinking the canine accompaniment adds a nice pastoral quality to the arrangements he reckons is more true to the originals. Tibetan monasteries are always surrounded by musical dogs, after all. Why not European ones?

Thanks for noticing his lovely penmanship, by the way. He will resist commenting on his tool, as he is not that kind of a dog.

That’s all right, an artist isn’t obliged to give away his secrets.
Fergus, although strictly an amateur compared to Hank, has been experimenting for several years now on an alternative to oak-gall ink. Since our oak tree doesn’t produce galls, he has instead been ingesting the branches it occasionally sheds. So far no success, however. Licking up the sunflower seed hulls under the bird feeder in an attempt to darken the ink has succeeded only in darkening the living room floor where he horks them up at 5am.

Hank recently composed a lovely multi-day symphony of hork after he ate something very, very deceased in the woods. It produced the most startling bright orange/black effect. It really was something. Everywhere.

Thanks, Jo! The work of digging through old stuff can be exhausting and it does indeed help to have a slightly rosy-colored outlook on it all. Luckily you have Purdey on hand to assist! Cap gets a little side-tracked. He’s definitely dreaming!